


Three in the Morning

by SilverRollu



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Fluff, Gen, Panic Attack
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-21
Updated: 2012-02-21
Packaged: 2017-10-31 12:44:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/344191
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilverRollu/pseuds/SilverRollu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You are Dave Strider, and you’re pretty sure that your big Bro isn’t acting normal."</p><p>Panic attack, and simple brotherly fluff.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Three in the Morning

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [this prompt](http://homesmut.livejournal.com/15023.html?thread=30104239#t30104239) on the Kink Meme.

You are Dave Strider, and you’re pretty sure that your big Bro isn’t acting normal. Well, whatever can be considered normal for a Strider. Your bro is stomping around the apartment at three in the morning--three in the fucking morning. You stomped out of bed, prepared to ask-- in typical poker faced fashion-- what the hell he was doing, but you’re held back by this, frankly, disturbing image.

You wanted to say something. “Bro? Bro, what the hell?” Not exactly your best work. And that doesn’t matter because it’s like he doesn’t see you at all. Instead, the man just grunts, growls, and move from the hallway into the front-room. He plops down on the couch, head buried in his hands, and you slowly approach him and stand a safe distance away. “….bro?”

Now that you’re closer--and not as clouded by sleep-- you notice just how disgruntled he seems. He’s shaking. It’s subtle, and from the way he looks it seems as though the only thing stopping him from full blown tremors is his ninja skills. You can hear him breathing shallowly, and that’s weird, because he never, ever makes a sound around you. Calling his name again, you start to get a little worried. Because this situation is looking at little too close to a former situation, and _that_ time did not go well at all.  


He seems to hear you this time, though he doesn’t turn to look at you, no. He’s gripping his head and tearing at his throat, and the closer you decide to walk to him the quicker his breaths seem to get.

“..Dave. Dave, Dave, Dave, Dave, Dave, Dave…” Bro rambles off like that, and you raise an eyebrow in question. He doesn’t see it, of course. His usually stoic demeanor is wavering, you can hear it in his voice. “Dave, I fucked up. It fucked up, it fucked up real fucking bad.”

Frowning, you ask, “What?”

But it seems like that makes things worse.

He growls, and he sounds like he’s hyperventilating or some shit. “God, Dave. Dave, Dave, Dave,” And you suddenly realize just how creepy it is hearing your name so many times in a row. It doesn’t help that it’s a breathless, rambling kind of drawl. It’s pretty freaky, actually. 

You’re not that good at this whole comforting and helping thing, mainly because this dude didn’t care too much about actively showing support in a way that didn’t involve soft puppet ass. You put a hand on his shoulder, intending to calmly ask him how he’s doing and if you could do something to calmly help him calm down but instead the opposite happens and he fucking crumbles in his spot. He’s gasping and shaking, and flinching away from your touch like some traumatized child. You can’t see his eyes behind his shades but you don’t need to-something’s fucked up and you’re dying to know what happened because you’re shaking a bit now too.

“Bro, chill dude. You’re freakin’ me out.”

“I can’t! Fuck!” And it seems that fuck is the only word in his vocabulary at that point, because he’s says it often enough, fast enough, that you could remix that shit into a beat at that moment. You want to grab him by the shoulders and shake him, but when you see his chest heaving, like his heart is trying to escape from his ribcage, you jump a bit.

It’s at this point that you realized that, yes, this is exactly like that “situation” a couple years back, where your Bro freaked out to the point where you were hiding in the corner and half the apartment was torn apart. You briefly try to remember that, and what psycho-babble Lalonde said when she heard about the incident. Bro was going through some shit. It was…fuck, what was it?

You try to talk again. “What the fuck happened?”

“I can’t…they fucking quit.”

What? Who quit what, fuck, you’re confused.

“Who--”

“He fucking quit on me last minute! And shit, I lost five fucking clients.”

You’ve stopped trying to make sense of everything. Instead, you silently let him talk, now that it seems like he wants too. But he’s shaking hella violently now. “I…I needed that money-we needed that money. Dave, Dave, I don’t know how the fuck I’m gonna…Shit I can’t….fuuuuuckk.”  


He drowns out like that, that tense aggressive tone in his voice growing with each word. But when you look at the way he’s now gripping his chest you see….apprehension? That’s some shit Lalonde would say, probably has said. You’re still not sure what the hell it was that she told you that time ago. It was some advice, because she believed that it would happen again. You wonder briefly if you owe her money on a bet or something, because that chick would gloat at this.  


He’s panicking, is what you can tell. Maybe that’s what Rose said.

“It can’t be that bad.” You attempt to calm…whatever it was that was bothering your bro. He doesn’t take it well. What a surprise.

“No, it is that bad!” he launches up from the couch, and you’re taken back at bit when he suddenly grips your arm. His grasp is firm, strong, and shaky. “Fuck, I lost the work-(you briefly wonder what the fuck this “work” was) I had planned for an entire week. Not tonight, not the weekend, but the entire week. I can barely fucking afford shit, let alone-“ He cuts himself off, tugs your arm, and lets out a breathy growl. “…I had shit riding on this motherfucker! Dave. Dave, Dave…”

Then he breaks completely.

“Dave I’m in so much deep shit right now.” His grip slackens and he slips to his knees. You go down with him, because he obviously needs you there with him and there’s no sense of coolness or irony that’s stopping you. You’ve already seen one cool guy freak out--you should be allowed to…help? You wanted to help, so you awkwardly wrap your arms around his shoulders, pulling him into a hug. 

You’re not sure if it’s actually a hug, because he’s not holding back, he’s taking deep breaths and shaking in your arms, and he’s mumbling weird apologies and phrases and shit that ain’t making sense no matter how you think about it. After a few minutes he does hug you back, but it’s a rough, bone-crushing thing. Like you’ll disappear if he lets you go. Now it’s like he’s trying to calm himself down, but he’s having some problems with that.

He says he feels trapped. That there’s no way out, that he’s got too many fucking irons in the fire and some douche came and pissed on the fucking fire before your shit was even ready. Now he can’t sell the merchandise at all, because it ruined everything. And his metaphors aren’t sounding right when he’s saying them so quickly and breathlessly. You can hear his heartbeat this close--it’s so fast. He says he doesn’t want to lose you. You don’t understand shit. You can tell he’s scared without needing to look at him. Bro continues to hold you for a while. 

\---

You finally remembered what Lalonde told you. It was a panic attack. It's happened before, a maybe two years back too, and Bro seemed scarier then. Because no matter what you said, it was like he was seeing things that weren’t there and freaking out about shit that wasn’t real. 

He wasn’t angry. Not like your younger self thought. He was panicking. About what, you wonder?

A little more than half an hour has passed, and Bro has finally stopped shaking and shivering. His grasp was so strong it actually left a small bruise on your wrist, one you’ll probably be ignoring for the rest of the week instead of taking care of it. Your big bro is now somewhat calmly pacing the front room, breathing deeply rather than rashly like before, and he isn’t tearing his hair out. You’re sure he knew what just happened to him, and now he’s trying to cope with that shit.

From what you figured, Bro had some plans lined up for the night. You aren't exactly sure about what your older brother did to keep food on the table--he knew people, did shit, and gave favors. Besides of his legit job, and his “hobby” of puppet porn, he did some other things. Only normal, right? And then something…happened (?)…and he got fucked over. Big time.

You’re sitting on the couch now, ironically snuggling one of the cushions in your arms as you try not to fall back asleep. Not that it’s too difficult for you to stay awake at this point- you’re legit worried about your Bro. You watch him.

After five more minutes of pacing he finally stops and looks directly at you, and he’s dead serious from what you can tell. At first you wonder what it could be that he’s going to say when he approaches the couch, but instead of whatever you were expecting he drops a heavy hand on your head and apologizes. A simple “Sorry, little man” and nothing else.

He sits down, saying he’s so fucking dizzy that he couldn’t stand any longer, and roughly plows his--still kinda shaky-- fingers through your hair.  
I don’t understand you, what the fuck is wrong with you, is what you want to say, because Bro doesn’t talk like this. He doesn’t act like this. But you don’t say any of those things because Bro throws his head back and mumbles thanks. You don’t understand, not a thing, and you continue to stay silent when the man falls asleep on the couch. You stay, and you stare at him sleep for a while before dozing off yourself.

**Author's Note:**

> Even though I like the way this came out, I'm still not sure if I did his panic attack correctly, so be sure to give me any advice/tell me if I did something wrong! @u@


End file.
